


A Plague O' Both Your Houses

by Thilien



Series: An Ever-Fixed Mark, That Looks on Tempests and is Never Shaken [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Eventual Romance, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, One Shot Collection, Plague, Sorry Not Sorry, The Fourteenth Century Really Was The Worst, gratuitous Shakespeare references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 10:16:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20256490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thilien/pseuds/Thilien
Summary: London, 1348.It is nearly Easter and the streets are so quiet that it might be a Sunday; shops shuttered; windows barred. But the city is not celebrating. The bells of St Bartholomew’s haven’t rung since Candlemas and only the hospital is busy now. Grass grows in the roadway and there is so much death that even the graveyards can’t keep up. And, as a demon walks down the street to keep a rendezvous with an angel, a chorus of the damned torments his thoughts.Crowley, Aziraphale, the fourteenth century, and why they both hate it so much.





	A Plague O' Both Your Houses

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first part of an intended series of 'one-shots' about our favourite angel/demon duo. The intention is to go chronologically but you know what they say about the road to hell and good intentions so we'll see. 
> 
> It's been YEARS since I wrote any fanfic but I swear watching the show and re-reading the book was like being bashed over the head and dragged forcibly back to the computer by a horde of rabid plot bunnies until I wrote something. This is my first A03 upload (in my previous fanfic life, I lived over on FF.net) so apologies in advance for any wonky formatting. And this is unbeta'd because apparently I like to live dangerously these days. As such, comments, kudos and constructive criticism are VERY much appreciated.
> 
> And, needless to say, I don't own any of this - just borrowing and playing with it for a while. All the good stuff belongs to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett and to the marvellously talented people who bought the book to life so wonderfully for us all.

It is nearly Easter and the streets are so quiet that it might be a Sunday; shops shuttered; windows barred. But the city is not celebrating. The bells of St Bartholomew’s haven’t rung since Candlemas and only the hospital is busy now. 

As he walks down Long Lane toward towards the market, Crowley avoids looking at the doors on either side. He stopped counting months ago, once it became apparent that the number with crosses exceeded the number without. So much death that even the graveyards can’t keep up - a new one was to be opened at Spittlecroft as Smithfield’s was already overflowing. 

Stepping over the grass that has begun to grow amidst the roadway for want of tending, he makes for the sign of The Mitre. Nestled in the shadows of the church, the tavern isn’t the demon’s first choice of drinking establishment, but it is one of Aziraphale’s preferred haunts and, possibly thanks to some divine intervention on the angel’s part, the landlord and his family have avoided the worst of the pestilence so far. 

Pulling off his hood and mask as he enters, Crowley signals to the landlord to bring over a flagon before slumping into a corner booth. There are no other patrons. With Death ever present, the humans aren’t straying far from their doors. 

Tiredness pulls at him as he retrieves his dark glasses, hiding his eyes before the landlord comes over. He knows that, logically, a demon shouldn’t get physically tired, but he’s been working non-stop since All Saints and he figures his corporeal form is finally beginning to flag.  [i] 

The landlord brings over the flagon and Crowley moves to find a coin before the man waves him off. 

“On the house Doctor,” he says with a small smile, “You look as if you’ve been to Hell and back.” 

Crowley offers a wan smile, a nod of thanks. As it happens, he hasn’t actually been to Hell for some time. What with the sudden and ever-increasing influx of souls to contend with, the forces of darkness have been far too busy to keep even a passing eye on their earthly ambassador. He’s made the occasional report, of course. But beyond confirming that Hell does, indeed, appear to have arrived on Earth, there isn’t really very much to say. And it isn’t as if he can tell them what he’s actually been up to. 

A sudden draft and the clatter of the door announces another arrival, a mop of blond curls appearing as the hideous beak shaped hood is pulled clear. 

“Aziraphale!” 

Crowley’s smile is genuine this time. Although he never stops too long to wonder why, the mere sight of the angel; looking worn and pale but so _so _alive, is enough to take away some of the near permanent chill that has settled in his heart this past year. 

“Crowley” 

Accepting a proffered flagon from the landlord, Aziraphale comes over to join the demon, pulling up a stool before taking a long drink. 

“God, what a day…” 

The words come out as a sigh. 

“Taking the Lord’s name in vain, angel?” Crowley quips, “Must have been bad.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t answer, staring instead at the table with an intensity that suggests, if he were to stare long enough, it might come up with answers to all the prayers that Crowley knows the angel has been sending. 

Definitely bad then. 

Crowley leans back into the shadows of the booth and slips off his glasses. It’s a risk, especially given how damn tired he is, but the landlord is busying himself over at the bar and Crowley would prefer to be able to see the angel properly. 

“Anything I can help with?” 

Aziraphale looks up sharply, the faintest flicker of suspicion crossing his features. It amuses Crowley no end that, despite nearly two centuries of their mutually beneficial ‘Arrangement’, often complete with accompanying drinks at the nearest hostelry once the necessary favour has been completed, the angel still thinks he’s up to something. As if their orbits hadn’t somehow been revolving around each other for the last few hundred years. 

“No, seriously, I’m asking,” he continues, softening his tone. “You know if you’ve been overdoing the miracles again, I can always cover a few of the minor ones.” 

He sees Aziraphale grimace a little at that. Not surprising. It’s taken a lot of convincing to get the angel to agree to the occasional doubling up of duties. Aziraphale, for all his love of good scriptoriums and a well-stocked table, takes his work seriously. And it isn’t that Crowley doesn’t. It’s just that, for the demon, the work is a means to an end as opposed to the end itself. 

“It’s not as if I’m especially busy right now,” he continues. “Not a lot of opportunities for temptation during a plague. And there’s so much dissent about, the humans doesn’t exactly need me to add any more.” 

He’d have carried on rambling if he had to, drawing out the conversation until he said something that got the angel to speak. But he doesn’t have to. Crowley can see the moment that Aziraphale makes up his mind to talk to him and, although he ignores it, it makes his heart leap just a little.  [ii] 

“The miracles…won’t be a problem after today,” Aziraphale says, looking up. 

Crowley raises an eyebrow. It’s an invitation, and Aziraphale doesn’t need to be invited twice. 

“I had visit from Gabriel today,” the angel confesses gloomily. “He said there’s no point ‘wasting my angelic energies’ in the hospital and I’d be better off focusing on saving their souls instead of fretting about their bodies.” 

“Sounds like Gabriel. You know, for an angel, he’s never really grasped compassion, has he?” 

Aziraphale looked momentarily guilty. 

“Oh, I’m sure he…well…he must mean well, mustn’t he? And I suppose he’s right, in a way. The number of people I’ve ‘cured’ only to have them back in again two days later in exactly the same state. If this is all part of the Great Plan, then I suppose I ought to be focusing on getting as many people into Heaven as I can. Save them from…you know…” 

“From my lot?”, Crowley offers, a hint of amusement in his customary drawl. 

“Well. Quite.” 

“So back to saving souls is it then, angel? Can’t say I’m inclined to fight you for them. I’ve had it with this century. Might even sleep through the rest of it at this rate.” 

Crowley doesn’t feel as flippant as he sounds but then, he seldom does. But this is how it is with Aziraphale, how it’s always been.  [iii]  Something about the studied cynicism he affects puts them both at ease, reminds them they are working for different sides. 

To his surprise, the angel doesn’t rise to the barb. Instead, he slams his ale tankard down onto the table with a thump that surprises both Crowley, who hasn’t seen the angel so much as scowl in about 500 years, and the landlord, who suddenly decides now might be a very good time to go and check the ale barrels in the cellar. 

“But it isn’t _right_ Crowley,” Aziraphale protests. “They’re good people, for the most part. They’ve work hard, go to church on Sundays. They say their prayers. And even if they don’t, there are _children_.” The angel throws his hands in the air in a defeated gesture. “And now I can’t even ease their passing.” 

Crowley knows that, if he was playing by the rulebook, he would take this opportunity to say a polite farewell to his long-time adversary before popping down to Head Office to report that Heaven was giving this one up for a loss. They’d probably even send up some minor demons as extra hands. Desperate souls, after all, are so much more inclined to pray to any entity they think might save them. Some of them might even be inclined to do deals, and you always got extra credit for deals. They showed the personal touch, after all. 

But Crowley hasn’t played by the rulebook for a very long time. It was, after all, the reason he ended up in Hell in the first place. So, he doesn’t drink up and head off to the nearest quiet alley for a quick trip to the underworld. Instead, he looks at Aziraphale, with his blond curls messed up by too many hours spent running a hand through them. Aziraphale, with the slight wear to the fabric at his sleeve, evidence of a spot that Crowley knows the angel worries at when he’s stressed, even though Aziraphale himself doesn’t even realise he does it. Aziraphale, whose crystal blue eyes have been getting just that little bit sadder with each passing day. 

And he says, “You could always try helping them the old-fashioned way you know.” 

Aziraphale stares at him as if he’s gone slightly mad. 

“You mean…with _human _medicine?” 

Crowley shrugs. “Well, why not? You’ll have most of what you need in the gardens. A compress of betony and feverfew eases the head. Coriander will reduce fever. Valerian for sleep. Musk mallow…now, that might reduce the swelling. And there’s always hemlock, for the pain. In small doses of course. Don’t want too much or it’ll overload their systems. And did you know that if you burn thyme it’ll get rid of that god-forsaken odour?” 

He’s so busy rattling off the list that it takes him a few moments to clock that Aziraphale has gone from staring at him like he’s gone mad to staring at him like he’s grown a second head. 

“What?!” 

“How on…how do you know all of that?” Aziraphale asks. 

Its then that Crowley remembers Aziraphale is a principality. He wasn’t around…before. The two of them have been stuck together on earth for so long that Crowley sometimes forgets Aziraphale has no idea what he did prior to getting kicked out of Heaven. Sometimes - most of the time - Crowley tries to forget himself. It’s easier that way. But recently, he’s been drawn back to that old knowledge. 

Demons can’t heal people. Healing is, by its nature, a very angelic power. But not all medicine is healing. 

It is simple enough to do. A potion, to aid the sleep. Valerian and camomile mostly. With a little hemlock and just enough wolfsbane to make it quick. 

Healing might not be in a demon’s professional remit, but poison is. There are so many people crying out for death in the city now and Crowley, demonically attuned to hearing the desires and wishes of mortals, sometimes feels as if he can hear every single one of them. Ordinarily, it’s just background noise. Easy enough to tune out unless the demon wants to hear it. But these are extraordinary times and that noise has become a chorus. A chorus to the damned, begging for an end to their suffering but fearing for their immortal souls. 

And then there is Crowley. Already damned and without a soul to fear for. Murder is, after all, part of the job. Practically a virtue by demonic standards. And if it eases their passing? Well, it isn’t as if Hell is paying enough attention to count the numbers that have headed in each direction of late. 

But best not to let Aziraphale know any of that. The angel has an annoyingly obedient streak and is as traditional as they come. Crowley suspects that, however fond Aziraphale might have grown of him, the morally grey area he’s currently inhabiting would not meet with the angel’s approval. That, and Aziraphale would want to know _why_. And the answer to that question, if he is honest, unsettles the demon to his core. 

“I used to take a professional interest,” he replies, doing his best to affect nonchalance, “Galen was one of ours you know.” 

Aziraphale is still staring at him, clear blue eyes considering the demon if he’s suddenly transformed back into snake. Crowley decides its best to move the conversation on. 

“If I’m honest, I’m surprised you never bothered to learn angel. All these months in an infirmary and you never picked up anything from the monks?” 

Aziraphale has the good grace to look sheepish. 

“Well...once they…erm…once they realised I had a ‘gift’, as it were, they…err…they rather just left me to it really.” 

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Angels. You lot never have to do anything the hard way do you?” 

To his credit, Aziraphale doesn’t answer. The angel wasn’t always the quickest on the uptake when it came to the nuances of modern language, but he had, finally, grasped sarcasm sometime around 50AD. Unbeknownst to Crowley, he’d then spent the next 200 years wondering how much earlier Crowley had grasped it and wondering whether his comment in the Garden about the flaming sword being the right thing to do had, in fact, been intended as sincerely as Aziraphale had taken it.  [iv] 

Crowley drinks the last of his ale and uncurls his long limbs to stand. He’s been here too long. Heaven and Hell might both be busy with the sudden surge of souls, but it doesn’t do to hang around the angel for too long. He finds himself unable to think quite as clearly for a start. 

“Tell you what, I can write some stuff down for you, if you like. Potions, poultices, etc etc.” The demon waves his hand airily, as if this favour is nothing. Just another part of the Arrangement, like always. 

Aziraphale beams, a smile that reaches all the way to his eyes. When the angel smiles, it is almost as if he glows. Not that Crowley has noticed, of course. 

“Oh, would you? I mean…I know it’s not a cure but if it really will help. And I don’t suppose Gabriel can argue with that. Gives me more time to work on them. And some of them do pull through, although I haven’t yet worked out why. I suppose if I can convince them it’s thanks to Her grace, they might even find it inspirational…” 

Crowley suppresses a grin. When Aziraphale is happy, it’s hard not to find it infectious. The angel is just so…giddy. 

“If you’re here again tomorrow, I’ll bring along what I can,” he says. He briefly contemplates putting the hood back on before leaving but settles for his glasses. The hood and its bird-like mask allow him to move freely about the city but there’s something about it that unsettles him. 

Crowley moves to head off when Aziraphale turns. 

“Crowley…” 

For one moment, it looks as if the angel was going to grab his hand, but Aziraphale stops himself just in time, settling for clasping his own hands together instead. Blue eyes meet amber and, not for the first time, Crowley is glad for the protection afforded by his shades. Even an angel can’t read what he can’t see. 

“Thank you.” 

It isn’t the first time Aziraphale has had cause to thank him. It probably, Crowley reflects, won’t be the last. The angel is like a bad penny, just keeps turning up. Like a shadow the demon hadn’t even realised he had. There aren’t many constants in his life but Aziraphale is one of them. An ever-fixed mark. And Crowley, fool that he is, kind of likes that. 

“Whatever. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” 

He shoulders his way out of the pub. The last of the evening’s sunlight has fled and shadows cover the street. The night is a cold one and the demon feels the chill. He’s never quite forgotten the sensation of being cold-blooded. As he wanders down the deserted street, stars glimmer faintly overhead. 

Crowley stops to stare at them. He loves the stars. Once, in what actually was another lifetime, he had helped to arrange them. Tiny dots of light in an ocean of darkness. Which is, Crowley reflects, as he continues down the too-quiet streets of abandoned houses and shuttered shops, the sound of humanity’s suffering still aching in his head, all you can ever really hope for. 

  


* * *

[i]  The idea of being emotionally tired has not yet occurred to Crowley. Because everybody knows that demons don’t really _do_ emotion. Even if this particular demon plays fast and loose with that rule most of the time. 

[ii]  It’s not just a little. More like a somersault if we’re being truthful. But demons are very seldom truthful, and, in Crowley’s case, he really does ignore it. He _always _ignores it. And, sorry dear reader, but he’s going to keep on ignoring it for a very long time yet. Several centuries in fact. Demons don’t do anything by halves. This one, for example, is going to turn pining into an artform. 

[iii]  The word ‘banter’ hasn’t been invented yet. When it is, sometime in the seventeenth century, Crowley will hate it with an undisguised passion largely because he recognises it for what it is - a very long, very tedious way of avoiding saying what you really mean. He should know because, by that point, he and Aziraphale have been doing it for nearly 6,000 years. 

[iv]  The answers to the first question, of course, being that Crowley had never had to grasp sarcasm because he’d invented it - passive aggressive acts of demonic irritation already being his speciality. The answer to the second - and to Aziraphale the much more important - question, being yes, Crowley was being sincere. For some reason that Crowley has not yet been able to figure out, there is something about Aziraphale that has always inspired his sincerity. And he has never, for one moment, doubted that the angel did the right thing. 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me not to the marriage of true minds  
Admit impediments. Love is not love  
Which alters when it alteration finds,  
Or bends with the remover to remove.  
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark  
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;  
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,  
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.  
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  
Within his bending sickle's compass come;  
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.  
If this be error and upon me prov'd,  
I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.  
\- Sonnet 116, William Shakespeare


End file.
